She was the fifth child, the fifth girl at that, and most-her parents included-were of the opinion that four girls were already more than enough for one family. So while her naming celebration was as brilliant an affair as anyone could expect from the sixth most influential family in the city, no one paid much mind to the cooing infant in the bassinet.
There was indeed paperwork. Manila folders stuffed full with forms for pay, forms for his official position within a shadow arm of a religious organization with more political power than most countries, forms conferring security clearances, forms ensuring his silence. Even a form for the return of his greatcoat and uniform in postage from a foreign principality. By the time he was done with them all, his right hand was cramping and he was more than a little irritable. Maker's breath if he never signed another piece of paper again, it would be too soon.
The Divine's legal counsel, Josephine, took the final folder and smiled sympathetically from the bench positioned on the other side of the private passenger compartment. It was cushioned in green velvet brocade and a considerable degree more luxurious than the coach car's wooden benches that he'd spent hours on just this morning. Beside her, Cassandra stared out the window. After a perfunctory greeting on the platform, she declined to say a word to either of them.
"Good, now that all that is out of the way." Josephine extracted a briefcase from the luggage compartment underneath the seat and set it on her lap.
Reaching into the reticule dangling from her wrist, she produced a brass key and fitted it into the keyhole at the front of the case, "We will be meeting the rest of our party in Amaranthine. I received a telegram from Leliana this morning that the doctor arrived just last night."
With a decisive flick of her wrist, the briefcase snapped open and she withdrew three bound folders and handed them over, "These should keep you occupied until then."
Cullen unwound the black twine from one, noting the symbols stamped across corresponding to his newly minted security clearance, and began sifting through. For a moment the compartment was silent save for the rhythmic rumble of the train hurtling east.
"I don't suppose you have a tuxedo in that duffel?" Josephine suddenly asked, scrutinizing him beneath the brim of her smartly turned out hat. He was easily the shabbiest of all of them with his stubble and dirty fingernails. Luckily, he was never one to nurse wounded vanity overmuch and he bore up under her dissection with a mere fidget.
"No." he replied drily, not comprehending why she would ask something so odd.
She frowned, retrieving the notepad and pen that seemed perpetually near her fingertips, "With the right paperwork, I can elongate your final leave by another two weeks. You'll have to fill out a few more forms, of course. That should give us some time to have some suits done up, while you wear your uniform to some of the more casual functions."
This caught his attention, settling into his stomach like he'd just swallowed a stone, "I'm sorry, did you say functions?"
"Oh yes!" her eyes took on a delighted gleam that only made the weight in his stomach worsen, "Your presence will give us an even better chance to gain access to the Trevelyan's directly. Considering how close-lipped the staff is, it is a remarkable opportunity."
It was quite obvious now what 'diplomatic envoy' entailed. In his mind he had pictured a variant of the liaison assignments he'd performed in the year after the war ended. Most had simply involved a great deal of standing about in rooms with overlarge tables while reporters set snapped official photographs of people signing documents. None had required tuxedos.
He caught the wry twist of Cassandra's mouth reflected in the window and remembered the conversation on the platform about 'insignificant details'. Maker, what had he gotten himself into?
Rather than giving in to the temptation to quit the compartment and forget this entire day ever happened by getting off the train at the first possible opportunity, he focused on the documents in the open folder. From deep within the stack, a paper slipped out from its clip.
He saw a familiar scrawl in faded Biro beneath blocky typewritten text and the train compartment curled and distorted away like a burning photograph.
What he could remember was mostly half-recollections, overblown exposures of degraded celloid, devoid of anything beyond hints of shadow and suggestions of shape. But some memories remained clear, juxtaposed amid all the snapshots of nothingness. He expected that over time, they would lose some of their startling vividness, the colors would fade and the lines would blur until the entire picture dissolved into the brightness of forgetting. But they never did.
He clutched the paper between his thumb and forefinger and the feeling of it in his hands at that very moment overlapped like a ghostly double image over another, much older.
Patient exhibiting symptoms of nervous disorder resistant to medication. 500 mg potassium bromide solution to be administered daily until symptoms subside. Possible candidate for electrical current therapy.
Dr. Greagoir.
Chief of Medicine.
She was concentrating. He could tell because she had gone utterly still, perched up by the windows that never opened. Sunlight streamed around her, setting her fiery gold and translucent against the glass. Despite himself, he must have made a noise because the moment slipped away and she was looking up at him.
"Dr. Rutherford?"
He shifted the clipboard in his hands, "P-please, just...just call me Cullen. I'm only a medical student."
A tremor shook through his hand and the paper with Dr. Greagoir's diagnosis crumpled up against his fingers. The noise echoed, too loudly in his ears, sounding lower and deeper than it should have, like the low vibration of metal on metal. Looking down, he saw that he had nearly ripped the sheet in two.
"Is something wrong?"
Cullen released the paper with a jerk and met Josephine's concern with a calm that did nothing to betray the sick lurch in his chest or the acid bite of adrenaline on his tongue. The beginnings of a headache already lingered around his temples like a promise.
"No, just a spasm of the muscle."
Withdrawing his cigarette case and lighter from his overcoat pocket, Cullen carefully set aside the folder so as to not drop ash onto it and stared out the window at the blurring landscape until the tremor in his fingers finally subsided.
His head was still a dull, pulsating throb by the time they reached the outskirts of Amaranthine, but he had managed to finish two of the folders despite it. Their contents had confirmed some of his suspicions but left him with far more questions than answers.
Josephine had gone to the dining car, leaving him in complete silence with Cassandra, who was absorbed with a book. She had taken pains to conceal the cover from his view, leading him to draw the most amusing conclusion possible.
"Miss Pentaghast…" he started.
"Cassandra."
"Cassandra. Could I ask your opinion on all this?"
She shot him a look that demanded clarification and he gestured towards the paperwork in his lap, "This occult movement…anthroposophism"
Surreptitiously slipping her novel into the fold of the cushion, she considered for a moment before answering, "Yes, it is the idea that, rather than suffering from mental delusion, the afflicted are gifted with a connection to the spiritual realm of the Maker. If nurtured properly, this connection can be used to manipulate matter and energy in the physical world. But it is a source of danger as well, those connected are more vulnerable to..."
"Possession. I've seen it for myself. " he answered for her.
She nodded because, of course, she already knew as much,"The movement is very...fashionable in Orlesian high society, but only to a superficial extent."
From his experience with Orlesian fashion whims, Cullen fully comprehended the meaning of her pronounced eye roll. After all, he had experienced the dubious pleasure of mushroom-flavoured chocolates.
"In the Free Marches,anthroposophism is more militant in nature. We've tracked the majority of the radical pockets to Free Marcher cities along the coast-Kirkwall, Ostwick, Hercinia, and Wycome."
City lights bloomed in the darkness beyond the window, bright streaks in the dark as they hurtled towards Amaranthine. Cullen was silent for a moment, watching the tracking paths of streetlights in the distance.
"And you suspect the missing patients from Klinloch are caught up in one of these radical groups?" he asked after a moment.
"Many cities in the Free Marches lack mandatory medical testing for school aged children and lack trained professionals, anyone with magical abilities attempting to escape placement in the sanatoria often end up in the port cities. They typically fall into the radical side of the philosophy. And there is the timing of it..."
He had to admit that the timing was damning. After Klinloch, the other placebo substitutions had occurred only in the past year and the last known sighting of the patients had been just over a year ago on a ship departing from Highever to the Marches. It certainly offered a convincing explanation of the connection between Klinloch and the radical anthroposophists.
And then there were the family connections to Kirkwall. That taunted him especially. It was as if their lives were two threads fated to never intersect again except through a tangled web of other people. But, no matter what the future, they were forever knotted together by the past. He, because she had saved his life and she because he very nearly took hers.
Before he could say any more, the door to the compartment opened and Josephine's dress was brushing over the polished but worn leather of his boots. She dropped a cloth napkin onto his paperwork covered lap and presented Cassandra with a similar lacy bundle.
"I bought you both some rolls from the dining car. The Grand Hotel Amaranthine has a very talented chef, but I expect he's been asleep for the past hour."
Beyond the window, the station pulled into view as the train slowed to a stop. It was nearly deserted at the late hour, lamplight casting puddles of yellow light on the empty platforms. Muffled by the glass, he heard the whine of a siren somewhere in the city. A wave of fatigue overcame him, reminding him that he had not slept for nearly a full day. He rubbed the back of his neck, pinching nerves that seemed to have retired without the rest of him.
Josephine cast her eyes on his progress, "Oh, excellent, you're almost finished. Leliana will be pleased to be able to discuss some things before we leave tomorrow."
"I haven't read everything yet. Nothing of the information gathered on the Trevelyans," he admitted.
"Skip it." Cassandra advised, "It's useless for the most part. We have nothing on her, just the parents and the sisters-all four of them. And we'll hear our fill of the ridiculous gossip when we get there, of that I have no doubt."
Josephine stood, pulling at the creases from her coat and making a disapproving noise, "Every detail helps."
"Yes, but Leliana is overfond of irrelevant details." Cassandra said and furrowed her brow, peering out the window in distraction. The other passengers were beginning to disembark, spilling forth onto the dimly lit platform.
Josephine, sensing her point would be lost on either of them, began gathering the folders back up from the bench, "We'll be staying the remainder of the night at the Grand Hotel. It's a pity we arrived so late. I think the Most Holy would have liked to meet you before we left. She's on her way to Denerim now for the peace talks."
The negotiations over reparations between Orlais and Ferelden were still all over the headlines. It had been a year and yet disputes remained and neither side seemed ready to capitulate. The Divine Justinia's intercession could not have come too soon.
Cassandra continued to search out the window and Cullen thought the sound of sirens was growing louder. Not because they were coming closer but because there were suddenly more of them.
Outside, from the darkness, a man emerged into the pool of lamplight, pushing and shoving aside the thin flow of late night passengers milling about the platform. He was shouting, but his voice was muffled by the both glass and chorus of offended mutters.
In the compartment, the air had gone thin and sharp. He could feel the electric tingle of it in his sinuses. Pushing Josephine away from the window, he began to shout a warning.
Cassandra turned away just before the glass exploded inward, flames and smoke licking up at the gaping metal where the window had been. For a moment, the world tipped, metal groaning as the bulk of the train recoiled in the tracks from the impact. Cullen slammed against the door frame of the compartment, bracing himself in the split second of frozen inertia before the weight of the car brought it back down again in a shuddering crash.
He lost no time ripping open the door and pressing Josephine out into the hallway. Coughing violently, Cassandra followed them, handkerchief pressed against her mouth, gun already free and in her other hand.
He heard screaming and the roar of flame but both sounded muffled, as if coming through layers of cotton stuffed into his ears. The noise of the blast had damaged them, but he did not judge it to be permanent and moved on to more pressing concerns, like asphyxiation from the smoke filling the hallway.
It was quickly becoming impossible to see, his eyes tearing up and irritated from the fumes. Josephine pulled away from him, falling to her knees and reaching back into the compartment, grabbing blindly.
Before he could pull her back something glimmered to his right. He twisted to the side too slowly, feeling the knife catch on his sleeve, gouging a line across his forearm as Cassandra's gun popped painfully loud against his left ear. He could hear nothing over the ringing in his twice damaged ears, but he glimpsed the upturned toe of a work boot on the floor through the billowing grey.
Cassandra was already shoving the other semi-automatic pistol at him and he barely had time to grab it from her before she stepped past him towards the form obscured by the smoke. She made to kneel down to check the body and he checked her with a hand at her elbow.
"We must leave!"
She was shaking her head and he could see that the side of her face was scored with cuts from the glass. Her words were mostly lost as she coughed into the handkerchief but he understood enough to realize that she intended to search the body.
Josephine was straightening up with the briefcase clutched in fingers bleeding from the broken glass covering the floor, her smile shaky but triumphant.
"There's no time." he shouted, "We must reach the exit before it becomes completely blocked off."
By either knife-wielding assassins or magical fire, he did not add.
The blast had ripped through the side of the train and they were tripping over luggage and shattered doorways twisting like wraiths in the thickness of the smoke. His handkerchief didn't do much to filter the acrid burn of the ash and it was harder and harder not to stop whenever a paroxysm of coughing overcame him. But they made steady progress through the wreckage, Cassandra at the back and Josephine hemmed between them as he kept his eyes and gun trained on the smoke billowing up ahead.
When they finally reaching the back of the passenger car, Cullen thanked Andraste that the door was not in the same shape as the rest of the train and wrested it open. Air, cold and sweet whispered past and they dropped down onto the crunching gravel set between the tracks.
Cullen drew to the side of the train, straining his senses for the low hum of focused energy. But he could sense and see nothing in the haze. It'd been minutes since the last scream cut off over the crackle of the flames and now it was eerily silent save the sirens. They sounded a world away, far beyond the bitter char wrapping around the station in a suffocating cocoon.
Heat wafted across them and a man stepped out from the shadows. Cullen trained the gun on him but paused when the air remained silent. There was something off in his gait. Joints seized and shuddered in jerks and twitches, like a puppet on the strings of a poor puppeteer. Shambling forward, he stepped into the light cast by the flames and on his face was a look of absolute horror. Something whistled in the air and suddenly the fear went slack as a knife embedded itself into his neck. His own weapon dropped from limp fingers as he collapsed face-first into the gravel.
A flash of scarlet emerged from the haze and Josephine cried out "Leliana!". Cassandra lowered her weapon just enough to indicate that the woman approaching them was no threat and Cullen did the same.
She was hatless, pinned curls plastered against her neck and face, which was smeared over with ash. Giving them a terse nod, she knelt beside the body to retrieve her knife. It came free with a disturbing gurgling sound as the blood pulsed onto the gravel.
"What happened Leliana? What of the diversion?"
"It failed."
She did not look up, intent on turning the man over so that she could reach the pockets of his tattered shirt, "They knew. Somehow."
Josephine paled, "How is that possible?"
Finding nothing in the shirt, Leliana turned out the trouser pockets. A silver nickel bounced out to trace a path through the puddle of blood spreading over the tracks.
Cassandra had picked up the weapon, barely more than a butter knife, and the unremarkable metal gleamed dully in the lamplight. Leliana glanced up at it.
"Yes, similar weapons on the others. They were all also elves." she trailed off, rubbing the fabric of the workshirt between her fingers, "Factory-made clothing from Ferelden but look...it's new. They tried to make it look dirty and torn but there's no actual wear on the fabric..."
Cullen itched to get out of the open and interrupted her, "Can we please continue this conversation somewhere else?"
Standing, she nodded, "Yes, that is wise. We have much to do before the night is over."
Cassandra looked up, "We? Leliana, where is the Most Holy?"
The question halted the woman mid-stride and when she stopped, her voice was empty, "She is dead."